


Sugared Violets

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [129]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Canon Era, Dessert & Sweets, Established Relationship, Foreplay, Hand Feeding, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Master/Servant, Misrule, Role Reversal, Roleplay, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Repression, Sexual Roleplay, Teasing, Top Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-22 00:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14925749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: It’s obvious that Merlin has no idea of his part in this little charade; his mouth is slightly open, and he drops into his seat with the look of a stupefied deer. With a sigh, Arthur leans in, tugging off Merlin’s jacket and undoing the laces of his tunic as he murmurs, “Is my lord hungry tonight?”Written for CD Prompt #316: Overindulge and CD Prompt #317: Tender.





	Sugared Violets

 

Arthur is already waiting when Merlin enters his chambers, having hurried through the corridors after the feast specifically in order to get there first. It’s strange; although he no longer has an audience, and the prickling humiliation of playing the servant in a hall full of other nobles is over, it is this part of the evening that he finds the most daunting. Perhaps because it’s where he has the most to lose.

 

“Sire,” he says smoothly, as Merlin pushes open the door. His manservant—currently his master—is perhaps a little the worse for wine, his cheeks flushed and his dark hair in disarray. He stops when he comes face to face with Arthur, and Arthur pulls out a chair without looking at him, dipping his head in a half-mocking bow. “How may I serve you this evening?”

 

“I—um.”

 

It’s obvious that Merlin has no idea of his part in this little charade; his mouth is slightly open, and he drops into his seat with the look of a stupefied deer. With a sigh, Arthur leans in, tugging off Merlin’s jacket and undoing the laces of his tunic as he murmurs, “Is my lord hungry tonight?”

 

A nod, and the faintest shaky exhalation of air. Arthur almost smiles. “Y-yes. Please,” Merlin manages. He lets out a little squeak as Arthur straddles his lap, already reaching for the bowl he had previously prepared. “Arthur— _sire_ —you don’t have to—”

 

“Shh.” Arthur picks up a sugared violet and presses it against Merlin’s lips. “Try one. They’re very good.”

 

Merlin is still staring at him like he’s never seen him before, and for an awkward moment Arthur wonders if maybe he has missed the mark, somehow; if this isn’t where the teasing hints and heated glances have been leading them both all evening. Then Merlin opens his mouth, his blue eyes never leaving Arthur’s, and allows the prince to drop the treat onto his tongue, one hand coming up to grab hold of Arthur’s wrist as he chews. Arthur smiles.

 

“Good?”

 

Merlin nods. “Very good.” He lets go of Arthur’s arm and swallows. “More?”

 

There aren’t many in the bowl; sugared violets are a luxury at any time of year, but particularly scarce during the depths of winter. Arthur feeds them to him one by one, watching each small change of expression as it crosses Merlin’s face, sliding slowly from tentative pleasure to outright wonderment as each new sweetmeat enters his mouth. His lips are shiny with the sugar, soft against Arthur’s fingers as, growing bolder, he nips and sucks at them before they withdraw, pink tongue curling around the tips to lap up the sweetness.

 

“Good,” he whispers, eyelids fluttering closed.

 

Arthur wants to kiss him. Instead, he feeds him the violets until they are all gone, letting Merlin lick the last of the sugar from his fingers in a way that is both unconsciously childlike and devastatingly erotic. Arthur is already hard in his trousers, but then, he’s been half aroused all evening, watching Merlin mingle with the other ‘courtiers’ in the great hall like he was born to it, his sly glances at Arthur in the corner as if to say _look, look at me pretending to be you_. Merlin looks good in a nobleman’s clothes, but he looks even better like this, his head tipped back to expose the white skin of his throat, rosy lips burnished with confectionery, shirt half undone. Arthur sweeps up stray granules with his thumb and presses them inside Merlin’s mouth, watching his cheeks hollow and lashes flutter until he has the courage to lean down and whisper, “And would my lord like to fuck me?"

 

Something catches deep in Merlin’s chest; he shudders, arching upward, and Arthur grinds down hard, rocking against Merlin’s cock through the fabric of his breeches. Merlin lets out a soft sound that might have been a yes, and then they’re both scrambling out of the chair and towards the bed, stumbling and catching at each other’s clothing as they go.

 

“Are you sure,” Merlin breathes, as Arthur clambers on top of him, hair wrecked, his tunic discarded somewhere in their mad rush across the room. “Arthur, are you sure you want to do this—"

 

“ _Yes_.” Tonight is the one night when Arthur doesn’t have to be himself, when it’s acceptable just to want things because he wants them and have no other reason. He silences Merlin’s questions with a kiss, chasing the taste of violets along the seam of his mouth and pressing him against the mattress with fingers and knees and hips, allowing no room for doubt between them. Merlin groans and lets him, giving ground entirely, as if he’s the one who’s been struggling with the idea for days instead of the other way around.

 

He had been expecting it to be uncomfortable, and it is, up to a point. Merlin’s girth is broader than the fingers Arthur used to prepare himself, and his progress in spite of the slick is painfully, torturously slow, a litany of gasps and bitten-off groans. Merlin’s hands flutter at his sides, useless as ever until Arthur growls at him to stop fussing and _do something_ and so he does, rolling them over and driving his cock home in a shaky slide that has Arthur cursing under his breath. They stare at one another, Merlin’s head hanging, arms braced on either side of Arthur’s heaving chest.

 

“Shut up,” Arthur says as Merlin opens his mouth.

 

“It gets better,” Merlin assures him, eyes crinkling, in the same tone that Arthur had used about the violets. Arthur wants to remind him of it, to bring the situation back under some modicum of control, but Merlin chooses that moment to flex his hips and thrust into him, setting loose a seismic shudder of pleasure that ripples through Arthur’s entire body. Arthur moans—a shocked, low sound—and it is easier then to move than it is to talk, letting Merlin fuck through his resistance bit by bit until he can hardly breathe for wanting.

 

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin whispers, and that at least is familiar, the ragged edge to his voice a torn battle standard amidst what remains of Arthur’s pride. “God, you feel so good, so _tight_ —”

 

“Shut up,” Arthur gasps back. “Shut up, shut up, shut—”

 

He has been split open, his legs around Merlin’s waist and his prick smearing pre-come shamelessly all over Merlin’s fist. The vulnerability of it is appalling; a future king on his back. And yet, it doesn’t feel like surrender. Merlin is trembling above him, all white limbs and open mouth, staring down at Arthur as if he’s a priceless treasure that has somehow fallen into his lap, and Arthur drags him closer, fisting his fingers in the sweaty nape of Merlin’s neck and his teeth bruising Merlin’s shoulder. “Come on, your highness,” he pants into Merlin’s ear. “ _Move faster_.”

 

Merlin lets out an oddly desperate noise, and this time Arthur arches up to meet him, angling his body so that Merlin hits the exact spot he wants on only the second try. It feels like a sudden punch to the gut; like the moment when his sword strikes past the enemy’s guard and cuts into bone. He remembers Merlin’s wonder the first time Arthur took him, the way he had come clench-jawed and shaking around Arthur’s cock like he was falling apart, and he can feel it now, too; the diffuse threads of orgasm drawing them both towards a central point, the way his self-control shatters a little more beneath Merlin’s every thrust. Arthur the prince could not have this, could never give himself over so completely to another man’s hands and mouth and prick. But Arthur the servant can—is expected to, even. Arthur the servant can whimper and squirm on his master’s cock; can beg; can clutch at the sheets and close his eyes and come, hot and wet between them, while Merlin presses his knees apart and fucks him through it, his hands on Arthur’s arms and shoulders and waist as though afraid that he might somehow disappear.

 

It is heady and terrifying, and Arthur wants to do it all over again.

 

“Could get used to you this way,” Merlin mumbles later, spent, his mouth pressed damp against the hollow of Arthur’s throat like he’s thinking about biting it. “Feeding me things, treating me like royalty.”

 

“Letting you do all the work,” Arthur murmurs in reply, his fingers following a teasing trail up Merlin’s spine. “Yes, I quite like that idea.”

 

“Prat.” Merlin nuzzles against him. “How is it that you manage to skive off everything, even when you’re supposed to be my servant?”

 

“I really don’t know,” Arthur answers, turning his head to lick into Merlin’s mouth in search of any sweetness lingering there. There are newly tender places on his body and bruises on his hips from Merlin’s fingers, yet he feels more like himself—more like a _king_ than he ever has. “I suspect it's pure indulgence on your part, _my lord_.”


End file.
